Ryden Oneshots

Carnival

But Brendon – god, Brendon, can’t he listen just this once? – stays where he is, sweaty, burning palm on Ryan’s forehead, questioning, still far too loudly, “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

Ryan groans. He is so not in the mood for this. The younger man never seems to get when people have had enough, when they can’t take any more. Without thinking – thinking hurts, right now – Ryan raises both arms and shoves at Brendon, watching as he stumbles a bit and trips over his own suitcase.

It doesn’t happen in slow motion, although Ryan feels it should, like a movie. Brendon throws his arms out as he falls, in some futile attempt to keep his balance. Ryan’s eyes widen a little as he notices for the first time how close the other man is to the corner of the hotel room’s mini-office desk. Brendon, obviously not having noticed the predicament, tries to do a small turn in midair, so that he’ll land on his stomach. Ryan winces as he hears the tell-tale smack of a skull hitting something hard, and he sees Brendon’s head jerk up a little just before the rest of him slumps to the ground.

Ryan holds his breath for a few terrifying seconds during which Brendon doesn’t get up, but after a little the body shifts on the hotel carpet and groans. A minute later, Brendon is sitting up with a hand covering the place his forehead had smacked the table. His eyes are teary, a natural reaction to hitting your head that hard, and he lets out a small “Ow,” sounding shocked.

Ryan simply watches Brendon stand up using one hand as leverage, the other still pressing against his forehead. He watches, doesn’t say anything, as Brendon stumbles a little on his way out of the room, mumbling an apology for bothering Ryan. Brendon was apologizing to him. Brendon closes the door gently, barely making a sound, for which Ryan is grateful.

Well, whatever. Ryan will feel guilty later, after he gets some rest, and when it doesn’t feel like the Seven Dwarves are “off to work” and mining for diamonds inside his skull.

**

Ryan is awakened by the loud slamming of the hotel room’s door – Spencer’s only greeting. He lets out a happy sigh when he realizes that his head is no longer in pain. “Spencer,” he shifts a little, squinting due to sleepiness and the fact that he hasn’t had time to get used to the bright light before Spencer throws open the curtains. “What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up,” Spencer replies, then a mocking looks of surprise and remembrance comes over his face, “Oh, except Jon just called from the hospital! Where he took Brendon while you slept your ass off.”

It all comes rushing back to Ryan then, the shove, the fall, Brendon holding his injured forehead, while Ryan sat and watched him leave, not even trying to help. Jon had had to take Brendon to the hospital? Oh, god. Ryan pales, thinking of the possibilities. Brendon could have gotten a concussion. Brendon could be bleeding into his brain. The hit could have triggered a bomb implanted inside Brendon’s head at birth, and it would kill them all when it went off! Shakily, he asks, “Is he – is he okay?”

Spencer continues glaring at him. “He had to get a few stitches. Apparently he smacked his head on the side of a table.” He gestures to the desk, still looking at Ryan accusingly.

Ryan looks at the ground and picks at the bedspread. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, sounding and looking very much like a scolded five-year-old who has just injured his playmate.

Spencer’s face doesn’t soften, but his voice loses it’s hard edge as he says, “I know you didn’t mean to. But you did. Thankfully he’s not too badly hurt. Why’d you push him, though?”

“I had a headache and he was making it worse,” Ryan shrugs a little helplessly. The way he puts it makes it sound bad. He says again, with more force, “I didn’t mean to.”